prison bars
by leavenotrace
Summary: Picks up a day or two after Chance left Winston behind in the bank during "Ilsa Pucci". If slash and/or crack!pairings make you uncomfortable, this is not the story for you. Mind the rating!


Disclaimer: I don't own any part or person of Human Target. I'm just borrowing the characters for entertainment purposes.

"Mixing alcohol and pain pills isn't a good idea, dude." Guerrero moved the bottle out of Winston's reach. Protest lit up in Winston's eyes, but what could he do? Shot in the shoulder, battered from days of torture, shell-shocked after almost being blown to pieces, he was pretty much rendered immobile.

"This feels like prison", he slurred and Guerrero knew what he meant.

Thoughts can be like prison bars, send you pacing in a never ending circle like a caged tiger. Guerrero was in need of release, too, but with Winston so unstable, embarking on a drinking session with him was not an option.

Night was falling outside, but Winston wasn't in the shape to switch the lights on and Guerrero wasn't in the mood. He kept staring out of the window.

"He's out there somewhere." Winston's injuries forced him to maintain a sitting position pretty much all day long, lying on his back with that shoulder was almost impossible. The nights were a bitch and another one was lying right ahead of him. "Can't you find him?"

Good question. Yes, he could. But to what avail? In his current mindset, discovery would only send Chance running again.

Winston was eyeing the Whiskey as if he was trying to move it into his reach by sheer willpower alone. No doubt, left to his own devices, he would hit the bottle in no time at all. No go there, not with all the pain killers he had taken.

Losing Winston so soon after losing Chance?

Guerrero decided he couldn't risk it. He also decided that, though alcohol wasn't an option, there were alternatives to make it through the coming hours.

He deserted his position at the window and walked over to where Winston was sitting. In the darkness they could hardly see each other.

Winston could see even less than Guerrero, thanks to the pills and drinks, so naturally he attributed what happened next to his intoxicated state. At first, at least.

Guerrero kneeled down in front of him.

Of course Winston didn't trust his senses. Guerrero, kneeling. This had to be a hallucination.

Then Guerrero reached for his belt. The soft clicking of the buckle, the persistent pull at the leather strap, that wasn't a hallucination.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Suddenly very sober, Winston tried to push Guerrero's hand away.

"Completing the prison experience." Guerrero lightly squeezed Winston's injured shoulder, sending searing pain shooting down his spine.

He got the message and froze.

"I don't want this, Guerrero."

"In prison, nobody cares."

Guerrero opened Winston's flies and pulled down his pants. Winston attempted to protest again, but was immediately punished with another squeeze to his shoulder, followed by a long, drawn-out stroke elsewhere.

Winston's breath hitched from shame and shock and rising panic. One more squeeze to his shoulder reminded him, however, that there wasn't much he could do, except plead, maybe.

Yeah, pleading with Guerrero. Fat chance.

Once again the squeeze to his shoulder was almost immediately followed by a stroke elsewhere.

Winston gasped and rolled his eyes backwards. His mind turned into a velvety blanket, dotted with stars. This strange mixture of pain and – damn it – pleasure was achieving where alcohol and pills had failed.

The prison bars were lifting.

But Guerrero was a guy, for heaven's sake!

A guy who was just lowering his head and licking…

This was all shades of wrong. Period.

But more stars dotted the blanket, drowned out the image of a certain face that had haunted him for days…

Guerrero sensed Winston's muscles go slack.

Time for the punishment part of this…

He stopped licking and withdrew his hand.

"What the…?"

"You wanted me to stop, didn't you?"

"You goddamn bastard!"

A hail of swearwords rained down on Guerrero. It came to a screeching halt the second Guerrero reached downwards again.

"So I gather you want me to continue?"

Winston said nothing.

"I want to hear it, Winston. Do you want me to continue?" Guerrero's voice was reduced to a low growl.

"You want to humiliate me? Is this what it's about? Humiliation?"

Now it was Guerrero who said nothing. His spectacles gleamed in the dim moonlight. His face gave nothing away. He was waiting for Winston to understand.

It took him a moment, but the penny dropped.

"I want you to continue", Winston whispered, barely audible. It hurt to say these words. Confessing to Guerrero, of all people, that he needed this, needed him… It tugged at his self-image, made him feel even more vulnerable than he already was, filled him with shame…

…but also released him, released him from the horrible feeling of guilt that had haunted him ever since Chance had left. He had kept the book from Chance, he had set this whole ordeal in motion…

Confessing to Guerrero was his punishment. And what followed was his redemption.


End file.
